


Apanalisko

by DisraeliGears



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Angst, Neck Kissing, aggressive affection, cooking as erotica?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 09:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12273795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisraeliGears/pseuds/DisraeliGears
Summary: ἀπαναλίσκω (ap-ana-lisk-oh) - From the Archaic Greek; to utterly and completely consume.





	Apanalisko

His presence is a physical thing, and Will feels it like a direct touch to his body whenever they are in the same room.

His gaze is sharp, pointed and penetrative in every possible way, assessing and devouring every inch of exposed flesh, from Will’s wrists and hands to his collarbones and shoulders, or the occasional slip of skin between his belt and hem of his shirt. He feels it immediately, innocent as a draft but terrible as a hurricane. 

Will remembers when he was a child, seizing with his hand a small fuzzy cactus in ignorant childish ardor. He’d expected it to be soft but it had been anything but; the spines were invisible, hundreds of them, all lodged into his palm. They provided the phantom sensation of invasion, inescapable and all consuming. 

This...this was what it feels like to be looked at by Hannibal Lecter.

 

Will watches his surgeon hands, eager and dexterous as enormous spiders, dance across a basket of vegetables and select what is ripe, and set each aside in a perfect line. Watches them seize a suitable chef’s knife and proceed to chiffonade rosemary, thyme and sage, then deftly scoop the result  into a small dish with effortless grace.

Will glances up at his face. 

His eyes are preoccupied by his actions, downcast and focused and partially obscured by his silver fringe.

Will leans forward, slowly and leonine like his subject. He reaches for a small squash, twisting his hand. His sleeve slips up, showing both the top of his wrist and the naked, pale bottom. His veins are blue and tendons white.

The spider hands holding the knife come to a halt, and Will  _ feels _ it- feels those eyes snap to this new revelation, desperate and possessive as a father to his newborn child.

Will withdraws, clutching the tiny vegetable in his hand. The gaze follows, caresses, consumes entirely and then is gone, disappearing as the quartering of vegetables resumes. 

First a buttercup squash, then a golden zucchini, then a hefty tomato. All drawn and quartered, gutted and dressed. 

Tiny calamities on a cutting board.

“Why do you look...” Will asks slowly, looking up at the downturned face.

Hannibal pauses in his mixing of vinegar and oil.

“But not touch?” Will finishes. He tosses the squash from one hand to the other.

After another brief pause, the mixing continues, and the face doesn’t look up.

“I would ask you to clarify, if you would.”

Will watches what he can of Hannibal’s eyes- they are stubbornly trained on his work.

“You don’t even really look...you look at my hands, my body, my feet even, as often as you possibly can… but I can’t even remember you looking me in the face. Not since…” Will clears his throat. The silence in the kitchen is cacophonous. “And you don’t touch me. Not accidentally, intentionally, nothing.”

The mixing is apparently done, because the little glass bowl is set down hard on the counter. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” 

The question is matter of fact, only slightly inquisitive.

Will puts down the squash, and spreads out both hands on the counter in front of him. They are standing opposite each other, precisely mangled vegetables between them. 

“I want you to look me in the eye and ask me that again. Because I know you’re afraid that you’ll look and I won’t really be here. But you don’t have to be.” 

Hannibal is many things, but a coward he is not. 

His eyes are up to Will’s like the lashing of a whip, hot and raw.

Will holds his gaze. It takes every ounce of self control he has not to look away, to hide from the feeling of that gaze finally meeting his, pressing against him and smothering him and eating him whole.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Hannibal says, and his voice is apocalyptic.

Will inhales, and his chest trembles. He nods, licks his lips, but doesn’t break the stare. He can’t find it in himself to speak.

Hannibal circles the counter, face mild and eyes flat as a shark. Will is pinned now; motionless, turned to stone by Medusa, hypnotized by Kaa. He is pivoting to face him as he prowls closer, entirely without conscious thought.

Hannibal comes to a stop so close their toes touch. He breaks their gaze only to slide his eyes down to Will’s throat, where the collar gapes open from undone buttons. Here his stare lingers, and Will feels it like the touch of a silk scarf. 

He is suddenly aware that he’s gasping for breath. The weight of Hannibal’s gaze is so heavy it’s almost crushing him.

Suddenly the eyes are back in full force, and Will keeps the sharp gasp at bay just barely. 

“You want me to touch you.” A statement.

“Yes.”  Will replies in a harsh rasp, just barely audible.

One of the delicate hands rises, and Will jolts when the back of a finger slides up his neck, from his clavicle up along the side of his trachea, to the soft tissue under his chin. A knuckle touches the edge of Will’s jaw. Will succumbs to the pressure and allows his head to be tilted, nostrils flaring as he drags in breath. 

Hannibal’s eyes devour every reaction, tiny black holes absorbing everything they see.

And then his mouth descends, and latches onto the exposed side of Will’s neck.

Will does cry out then, hands grasping desperately at the counter behind him.

Hannibal’s mouth is a luscious inferno, burning as he devours. His tongue laves in a fearsome swath, sucking and bruising.

Will tilts his head as far as he can, eyes screwed shut, letting himself be eaten alive and inviting a more rapturous feast.

He wants so badly his legs are numb and threatening to collapse.

Hannibal’s hand comes up to the opposite side of Will’s neck, clutching his prey to him as he consumes his willing victim. Will throws a hand up on top of it, lacing his fingers in and holding on for dear life. 

Hannibal licks, from the point of his chin to the hinge of his jaw, nipping at the skin beneath his ear. His teeth are sharp, and they pinch.

“ _ Ah...Christ… _ ” Will pants, and he suddenly realizes he’s snaked his other arm around Hannibal’s torso, dragging them into a single writhing mass. 

He can feel their arousal, pressed together, and he groans with his whole body.

Hannibal’s mouth carves it’s way down to his shoulder, breath hot as dragonfire, tongue and lips and teeth setting to his flesh with feverish abandon.

Then just as abruptly, he’s gone.

Will groans with loss and grief and pain, eyes flashing open.

Hannibal looks like a demon as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes black and bright with the fires of Hell.

“You don’t have to be afraid to see me, touch me. I won’t go...I won’t leave...” Will pants, holding on to Hannibal as tight as his fingers can clutch, “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Hannibal smiles, with a slow and small curve of his red, swollen lips.

“Never?”

Will drags his face closer, is rewarded with a wider smile.

“Never.”

And he presses in until their lips meet.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was a bizarre whim stemmed from reading too much Wordsworth and Coleridge.


End file.
